Man in the Box
by pledgeturnprestige
Summary: His brother was the only thing in his life he could ever really be sure of. Rated T for some language


There isn't a day that goes by that Alfred doesn't miss him. There isn't a night he doesn't feel lost without his brother. He can feel this gaping hole, right in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that never fades or dulls, no matter how much time passes. It's not something he can just recover from. He has, after all, lost a part of himself. Some nights, when it's almost more than he can bear, the only thing he can do is go to Jess, fast asleep in her bed, and watch her for a while, remind himself there is a reason to soldier on. Jess needs stability, someone in her life she can always count on.

That was what Freddie had been to Alfred. His brother was the only thing in his life he could ever really be sure of. Their mother had abandoned them so quickly that neither of them could recall her face. The orphanage provided no kinship. Friends came and went. There was never a guarantee, when they'd taken their life onto the streets, of a warm place to stay, of a meal in the morning. The precariousness of security, the darkness of the world at large was clear to the pair of them from the start of their life. They grew up jaded, never had a real childhood. They never got to enjoy innocence and the pure joy of seeing the world with completely earnest eyes. And that, perhaps, was why the art of illusion had captured them in the first place.

It was Freddie who pulled their first "trick," though to be fair it wasn't for the sake of entertainment. They were twelve, and hadn't had a decent meal in days. It had been the simple act of swiping a loaf of bread off a merchant's cart. They'd felt like kings as they split it (perfectly in half, as always) but Freddie had swelled with an even greater pride. Alfred would never forget the gleam in his brother's eye when he'd made off successfully with the prize, grinning wolfishly as he darted from the unsuspecting baker. It would be the same gleam, in years to come, that shone during one of their acts, and the same gleam that Alfred ached to see again.

It soon became less about the necessity for them and more about the thrill, the challenge. Alfred would up the stakes by trying something new (pickpocketing, for instance, had been his idea first) and Freddie would take it and make it his, too, before turning it completely on it's head and forcing Alfred to catch back up. They learned and grew through each other. It was less a rivalry and more a symbiosis.

Alfred had figured out how they could take their talent for deception and be applauded for it, how their genius could be appreciated by others. Magic. His brother had been immediately on board with the suggestion, but under one condition. "We do this the right way. All or nothing. Not cheap, or half-arsed. Complete dedication. Okay?"

Alfred's answer came immediately. "Of course."

He never knew what that really meant until it was far too late.

The complete and utter feeling of loss affected him in ways he never anticipated. Though to be fair, how could he? Life without Freddie was unthinkable from the start. His thoughts now are scattered, disorganized. He's missing the thread that kept it all tied together, he's come unraveled. Everything he sees reminds him of his brother, of what he once had and can never get back. He can't even look in a mirror without his heart breaking.

Killing Angier hadn't satisfied him. It wasn't like he was doing anything the bastard hadn't already done to himself—and a hundred times over, no less. It was simply something that had to be done. A life was wrongfully taken because of him. If anything, it was the King's justice done right. There was no pleasure to be taken from it. It wouldn't bring him back. Nothing can.

Alfred often goes over the events of the day of Angier's "murder" in his mind and wonders if there had been something he could have said or done to stop Freddie going to see that show. That last show. Of course he knows there wasn't. He was far too stubborn, too strong willed, too competitive, too driven by his need to improve himself, just too _Freddie _for his own good. He always thought he knew better than Alfred. He never would have listened. The thought is no comfort to him.

He's almost certain that Jess knows. That is to say, she knows something is missing. She had known Freddie as her father as much as Alfred, and he'd loved her fiercely from the start. Sometimes he misses cues in conversation, or little games they'd played that he'd never even known about. It becomes painfully apparent to him one day, when Jess is in mid-story about her day at school and he stops her to ask a simple question.

"Now, who's Donnie, sweetheart?" Her lower lip puffs out at this.

"Daddy, he was the one you showed the coin trick. And then you said you would make him disappear, too, if he ever pulled on my hair again. Remember?" Alfred almost winces at this statement, but manages to force out a laugh, kissing Jess on the head.

"Of course. How could I forget?" She isn't satisfied, but doesn't press. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

It doesn't happen all at once, but Alfred notices it over the span of a few months. She stops expecting those little things she shared with him. They seem to fade from her memory, and she is no less happy for it. Those small moments of recognition, hesitation, they become less and less frequent, and then stop altogether. It's as if Freddie never existed. She's forgotten him and moved on.

Alfred doesn't want that. He doesn't want to forget, no matter how much happier he would be for it. He wants to remember ever little detail. He wants to remember the way Freddie had held him when he'd found Sarah's body in their workshop and completely broken down. He wants to remember how he could be completely honest with him and not fear the repercussions. He wants to remember that almost agitated way he would describe a new trick to him, when the words wouldn't quite come and Alfred would, laughing, finish his thoughts for him. He wants to remember the smiles, the swearing, the drinking, the fighting, the frustrations, all of it.

Because, in the end, nobody cares about the man in the box...except for the man who came out in his place.


End file.
